


gather your tears

by circus (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:58:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/circus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why should someone be calling out his name in their sleep? There was no-one in the motel, for one. Well, except for Dean, and Dean didn’t cry. Crying just wasn’t Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gather your tears

The white ceiling looked bluntly back at him, oblivious to his glare. Tick tick tick, the clock nagged, incessantly. With a sigh, he rolled over. His eyes met his reflection - the mirror on the opposite wall. Gosh, he needed some sleep, he looked like some zombie out of a book. He turned over again. The clock ticked louder. Louder. He tried burying his head in the pillow, turning around on the bed and putting his head where his feet should be, throwing off the blanket, lying on top of the blanke - what was that sound? Like a moan, and then someone saying his name. Sam, Sam, Sam. Over and over.

He got up, out of bed, and walked to the door. The clock continued ticking. “Oh shut up, faggot,” he hissed under his breath and smashed it down on the floor. It rocked, slightly, and came to a stop, blank-faced black-and-green batteries defiantly staring up at him. He ignored them and went out the door.

Those muffled sobbing sounds came again, slightly louder. Strange. Why should someone be calling out his name in their sleep? There was no-one in the motel, for one. Well, except for Dean, and Dean didn’t cry. Crying just wasn’t Dean.

    “SAMMY!” a voice yelled, terrified.

Sam’s eyes widened in shock. Dean? This was Dean? But Dean… Sam’s brain was lost in a vortex of swirling thoughts as his legs carried him woodenly to his brother’s door. He could hear his voice again, mumbling unintelligibly into the pillow. Dean. Talking in his sleep. Crying. Mumbling his younger brother’s name. Sam shook his head. How…?

His hand on the knob, he entered the bathroom. The black and white tiled walls smiled at him. He took in the broken exhaust fan with orange blobs of paint on it, the mahogany-colored floor, the out-of-place green shower curtains… everything was normal.

Except for the man slumped against the bathroom wall. He looked the same to Sam, but there was something different. Something that didn’t have to do with the light scars on his neck or the fact that he needed a shave. It was an aura. As Sam walked quietly, confused, to his brother’s side, as he sat down by Dean’s feet and shook his black-pyjama clad leg and called his name, he tried to name it, this almost tangible feeling. He thought he knew the label, but this and Dean? Dean and -

As his brother opened his eyes, Sam looked into them and knew. Dean and terror. Terror and Dean. His brother was the same, yes, but he had also changed. But why? How? “Dean?” he asked, unsure of himself. He couldn’t grasp it. Dean, tough. Dean, his bigger brother. Dean, the jerk who insisted on calling him a bitch. Yes, he knew that Dean. But he’d never known Dean, so hurt. Dean, terrified. Dean, clutching his hand as if on a lifeline, eyes filled with unshed tears.

    “Aw, man, you crying?” Sam mumbled, awkwardly.

“Maybe,” was the broken reply.

Sam gulped. This was not good. Dean and admitting that he was capable of crying? Before he would have thought it to be impossible. But now… he wasn’t so sure. All he could think at the moment was just nodding his head and squeezing his brother’s hand. He didn’t want to look into those eyes. Couldn’t stand looking at the searing pain.

   “Dean…” he began. Then his voice caught. Damn.

Whisper, maybe? No use. His throat was too constricted.

But then Dean pulled himself together.

    “Yeah, bitch?”

That did it.

    “What’s wrong with you? You’re so… different. I mean you’re still the _same,_ but now you’re so guarded. Especially around me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, and  I want to. Whatever it is, it hurts you and I don’t want you hurting. Stop being a jerk and talk.”

Whoa. Big speech. And he’d said, “jerk” too. Amazing. _What_ a consoling brother.

    “Sammy…”

“That’s talking? Nice people skills. I didn’t know you had it in you!”

     “Sammy… it’s just,” and Dean just held his brother’s hand and stared at it, as if willing it to speak.

   “Sam, after you…” he tried again. “I mean…”

Sam’s eyes widened. It was him. This problem Dean had to do was with _him_ self. He was the problem. Sam gulped again.

 Dean gave up. He took his hand away, got to his feet, and hunted around for something, going out of the bathroom. Sam just sat on the floor. Dean was coming back. He wasn’t going to go for a calming walk, drown himself in tears on their doorstep and fall asleep on his bed. He may not know his brother inside out like he used to, but at least knew that much. After some minutes, Dean trudged into the room, sat down next to Sam, and held out a paper. Then he went and sat on his bed. Sam followed him. The light was on, and he read,

  _I really hate my throat right now. You can’t imagine. It’s just that, Sammy, after you left, I was scared. I didn’t feel the same. Life was just pointless. It’s always been me and you, Sammy. Us two, brothers, all that shit. But I never knew how important it was. Never understood how you were so much a part of me_. _It was dark, and I didn’t know what to do. And now you’re back. I know it should make me feel better, Sammy, but it just hurts even more. I don’t know why, but I really need you back. And you are back, but it doesn’t feel the same._

Sam didn’t read anymore. He couldn’t. The stupid jerk’s eloquence got on his tear glands. Shit, shit.

      “ _Jerk!_ ” he yelled, and turned around and hugged his brother for all he was worth.

They stayed like that for minutes. Or maybe it was hours. Dean’s face was buried in his younger brother’s shoulder, and Sam rocked him back and forth, back and forth, kept patting his shoulders, holding him close.

    “I really am back, you know. I’m staying, too,” he said quietly, as finally, he pushed his brother away to face him. “I am _back_ , Dean, so stop blubbering.”

 ”Do something,” Dean burst out, desperately. Sam frowned, puzzled.

    “Huh?”

“Do something, say something, make a face, anything!”

Obediently, Sam went over and smashed Dean’s clock to the floor. “That one cost me twenty five dollars, bitch!” Dean thundered. Sam wiggled his eyebrows.

    “I love you, too.”

Dean grimaced. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his back to Sam.

                 But they both knew there was a grin in his voice.


End file.
